On Dangerous Ground (20 page)

“So that’s it,” Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. “You’re happy to leave it that way?”

“I think so. A crime has undoubtedly been committed, but that’s a police matter, and frankly I don’t want the local constabulary swarming all over Loch Dhu Castle. We’ve bigger fish to fry here, Dillon.”

“I doubt whether the good Chief Inspector Bernstein would agree,” Dillon said. “A great one for the letter of the law, that lady.”

“Which is why we don’t say a word about this to her.”

Dillon lit another cigarette. “One thing we can count on, he won’t be missed, ould Fergus, not for a few days. The Munros will think he’s just keeping out of the way.”

“Which will be what Morgan is counting on. I would imagine he’s hoping to be out of here quite quickly.” Ferguson stood up. “Let’s get moving, we’ve got dinner to look forward to. It should prove an interesting evening.”

TEN

THEY ARRIVED AT THE CASTLE ONLY A FEW MINUTES after seven, Dillon at the wheel of the old estate car that went with Ardmurchan Lodge. He and Ferguson were in dinner jackets and Hannah Bernstein wore a cream trouser suit in silk crepe. The door was opened by Marco wearing his alpaca jacket and striped trousers and he ushered them in, his face expressionless, to where Morgan stood by the fire in the hall, Asta in a green silk dress on the sofa beside Lady Katherine Rose.

“Ah, there you are,” Morgan said genially. “Come in. I think you’ve met Brigadier Ferguson, Lady Katherine?”

“Indeed, yes. He called and took tea with me, he and this charming young gel.”

Hannah looked amused and Ferguson took her hand. “Lovely to see you again. I don’t think you’ve met my nephew, Sean Dillon.”

“Mr. Dillon.”

Dillon took the cool, dry hand, liking her immediately. “A great pleasure.”

“Irish?” she said. “I like the Irish, charming rogues, the lot of them, but nice. Do you smoke, young man?”

“My one vice.”

“What a liar you are. Give me one, will you.”

“Lady Katherine, I’m so sorry.” Morgan picked up a silver cigarette box and came forward. “I’d no idea.”

She took one and accepted a light from Dillon. “I’ve been smoking all my life, Mr. Morgan, no point in stopping now.”

Marco appeared with a bottle of Crystal in a bucket and six glasses on a tray. He placed it on a side table and said in heavily accented English, “Shall I open the champagne, sir?”

“Not for me,” Lady Katherine said. “It doesn’t go down well these days. A vodka martini very dry would be just the ticket. That’s what got me through the war, that and cigarettes.”

“I’ll get it,” Asta said and went to the drinks cabinet as Marco uncorked the champagne bottle.

“You served in the war then, Lady Katherine?” Ferguson asked her.

“By God I did. All this nonsense about young gels being allowed to fly in the RAF these days.” She snorted. “All old hat. I was a pilot from nineteen-forty with the old Air Transport Auxiliary. They used to call us the Attagirls.”

Asta brought the martini and sat beside her, fascinated. “But what did you do?”

The old lady sampled the drink. “Excellent, my dear. We ferried warplanes between factories and RAF Stations to free pilots for combat. I flew everything, we all did. Spitfires and Hurricanes and once a Lancaster bomber. The ground crew at the RAF Station I delivered it to couldn’t believe it when I took off my flying helmet and they saw my hair.”

“But all in all, it must have been extremely dangerous,” Hannah said.

“I crash-landed once in a Hurricane, wheels up. Not my fault, engine failure. Another time an old Gloucester Gladiator, they were biplanes, started to fall apart on me in midair so I had to bail out.”

“Good God!” Morgan said. “That’s amazing.”

“Oh, it was hard going,” she said. “Out of the women in my unit sixteen were killed, but then we had to win the war, didn’t we, Brigadier?”

“We certainly did, Lady Katherine.”

She held up her empty glass. “Another one, somebody, and then I’ll love you and leave you.”

Asta went to get it and Morgan said, “Lady Katherine doesn’t feel up to dinner, I’m afraid.”

“Only eat enough for a sparrow these days.” She accepted the drink Asta brought and looked up at Morgan. “Well, have you found the Bible yet?”

He was momentarily thrown. “The Bible?”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Morgan, I know you’ve had the servants turning the place upside down. Why is it so important?”

He was in command again now. “A legend, Lady Katherine, of great importance to your family. I just thought it would be nice to find it and give it to you.”

“Indeed.” She turned to Hannah and there was something in her eyes. “Amazing the interest in the Bible all of a sudden and I can’t help. Haven’t seen it in years. I still think it was lost in the air crash that injured my brother so badly.”

Morgan glanced at Ferguson, who was smiling, and made a determined effort to change the subject. “Tell me, just how old is the castle, Lady Katherine?”

Asta got up and moved to the French windows at the end of the hall and opened them and Dillon went to join her, moving out onto the terrace as she did, the murmur of voices behind them.

The beech trees above the loch were cut out of black cardboard against a sky that was streaked with vivid orange above the mountains. She took his arm and they strolled across the lawn, Dillon lighting a cigarette.

“Do you want one?”

“No, I’ll share yours,” which she did, handing it back to him after a moment. “It’s peaceful here and old, the roots go deep. Everyone needs roots, don’t you agree, Dillon?”

“Maybe it’s people, not places,” he said. “Take you, for instance. Perhaps your roots are Morgan.”

“It’s a thought, but you, Dillon, what about you? Where are your roots?”

“Maybe nowhere, love, nowhere at all. Oh, there’s the odd aunt or uncle and a few cousins here and there in Ulster, but no one who’d dare come near. The price of fame.”

“Infamy, more like.”

“I know, I’m the original bad guy. That’s why Ferguson recruited me.”

“You know I like you, Dillon, I feel as if I’ve known you a long time, but what am I going to do with you?”

“Take your time, girl dear, I’m sure something will occur to you.”

Morgan appeared on the terrace and called, “Asta, are you there?”

“Here we are, Carl.” They walked back and went up the steps to the terrace. “What is it?”

“Lady Katherine’s ready to leave.”

“What a pity. I wish she would stay, she’s wonderful.”

“One of a kind,” Morgan said. “But there it is. I’ll run her down to the lodge.”

“No you won’t,” Asta told him. “I’ll see to it. You’ve got guests, Carl. We mustn’t forget our manners.”

“Shall I come with you?” Dillon asked.

“It’s only three hundred yards down the drive for heaven’s sake,” she said. “I’ll be back in no time.”

They went inside and Lady Katherine said, “There you are. Thought we’d lost you.”

She pushed herself up on her stick and Asta put an arm around her. “No chance, I’m taking you home now.”

“What a lovely girl.” Lady Katherine turned to them all. “Such a delight. Do come and see me any time. Good night all.”

Morgan had a hand on her elbow and he and Asta took her out of the front door. A moment later the castle’s station wagon engine started up and Morgan returned.

He snapped his fingers at Marco. “More champagne.”

Marco replenished the glasses and Ferguson looked around the great hall, the weapons on the wall, the trophies, the armour. “Quite an amazing collection, all this. Fascinating.”

“I agree,” Hannah said. “If you’re into death, that is.”

“Aren’t you being a little harsh?” Morgan said.

She sipped some of her champagne. “If it was a museum exhibition they’d probably call it ‘In Praise of War.’ I mean look at those great swords crossed under the shields. Their only purpose was to slice somebody’s arm off.”

“You’re wrong,” Dillon said amiably. “The backstroke was intended to remove heads. Those swords are Highland Claymores and the shield was called a Targ. That’s where the word
target
comes from.”

“Actually, the particular one you’re looking at up there was carried at the Battle of Culloden by the Campbell of the day,” Morgan said. “He died fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

“Well I don’t consider that much of an ambition.”

“Haven’t you any sense of history?” Ferguson demanded.

“I can’t afford one, I’m Jewish, remember, Brigadier. My people have always had enough on to simply survive in the present.”

There was a silence and Dillon said, “Well that’s a showstopper if ever I’ve heard one.”

As he spoke the door opened and Asta came in. “That’s done. I’ve left her in the hands of the redoubtable Jeannie. Can we eat now? I’m starving.”

“Only waiting for you, my love,” Morgan said and he gave her his arm and led the way in.

The dining room was quite splendid, the walls lined with oak paneling, the table decorated with the finest crystal and silver, candles in great silver sticks flaring. Marco served the meal aided by two young housemaids in black dresses and white aprons.

“We’ve kept the meal relatively simple as I wasn’t sure what everyone would like,” Morgan said.

His idea of simplicity was extraordinary. Beluga caviar and smoked salmon followed by roast pheasant with the usual trimmings, all washed down with vintage Chateau Palmer.

“Absolutely wonderful,” Ferguson said as he tucked into his pheasant. “You must have an extraordinary cook here.”

“Oh, she’s all right for the simple things, but it’s Marco who roasted the pheasant.”

“A man of many talents.” Ferguson glanced up as Marco, face imperturbable, refilled the glasses.

“Yes, you could say that,” Morgan agreed.

Marco disappeared shortly afterwards, Dillon noticed that as the two maids cleared the plates. Asta said, “And what delight do you have for the climax?”

“Hard act to follow with a simple pudding,” Ferguson observed.

“Nothing simple about this, Brigadier, something Marco specializes in,” Morgan told him.

Marco entered the room at that moment with a large silver chafing dish, the maids behind him. He removed the lid and a most delicious smell became apparent.

“Cannolo,” Asta said in delight.

“Yes, the most famous sweet in Sicily and so simple,” Morgan said. “A tube of flour and egg filled with cream.”

Ferguson tried a spoonful and shook his head. “Nothing simple about this. The man’s a genius. Where on earth did he learn to do such cooking?”

“His father had a small restaurant in Palermo. As a boy, he was raised to it.”

“Amongst other things,” Dillon said.

“Yes, my friend,” Morgan told him calmly. “I suspect you and Marco would have a great deal in common.”

“Now then, Dillon, let’s concentrate on the meal,” Ferguson said. “There’s a good chap.”

Which they did, returning to sit round the great fireplace in the hall for the coffee, which was Yemeni mocha, the finest in the world.

Ferguson accepted a cigar. “Well I must tell you this, Morgan, that was the best simple meal I’ve ever had in my life.”

“We aim to please.”

“A most pleasant evening,” the Brigadier replied.

Dillon felt like laughing out loud at the insanity of it, the pretense of this amazing game they were all playing, the urbanity of the Brigadier’s exchanges with a man who only a few hours earlier he had seen dispose of Fergus Munro’s body.

“Well now,” he said. “If we’re going to play patty fingers here I’ll use mine on the piano if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” Morgan told him.

Dillon moved to the grand piano and raised the lid. It was very old, a Schiedmayer, but the tone wasn’t too bad when he tried a few chords. He lit a cigarette and sat there with it drooping from the corner of his mouth and started to work his way through a few standards.

Hannah came and leaned on the piano, sipping her coffee. “You consistently surprise me, Dillon.”

“The secret of my fatal charm. Any requests?”

Asta was watching, a slight frown on her face, and Hannah murmured, “Now that’s interesting, I do believe she’s jealous. What have you been up to, Dillon?”

“You should be ashamed, you and your bad thoughts,” Dillon told her.

Behind them Morgan said, “Asta tells me you had an excellent day with the deer.”

“Yes,” Ferguson said, “only when we got close enough to a King Stag to see the damned eyes and I lined her up with my gun, she wouldn’t pull the trigger. She said she couldn’t kill such a magnificent creature.”

Hannah turned. “Good for you,” she said to Asta.

“Well it
was
magnificent,” Asta said.

“Still a damn silly attitude,” Ferguson told her.

“No, I think the Chief Inspector has a point,” Morgan told him. “The deer can’t fight back. At least in the ring the bull has a chance of sticking his horn in.”

There was silence and Dillon said, “Sure and you put your foot in it there, old son.”

“Dear me, so I did.” Morgan smiled at Hannah. “So sorry, Chief Inspector, I wasn’t supposed to know, was I?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Ferguson told him.

“All out in the open, so we all know where we are,” Dillon said.

“And on that note we’ll say goodnight.” Ferguson stood up. “Whatever else, you’re an excellent host, Morgan. You must allow me to do the same for you sometime.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Marco opened the door and they moved out onto the steps. The sky was dotted with clouds and yet undulated with strange, shimmering lights.

“What’s that?” Hannah demanded.

“The aurora borealis,” Dillon told her, “the northern lights.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Asta said. “What a night for a drive. Can we, Carl?”

“Asta, be reasonable. It’s late.”

“Oh, you’re no fun, you.” She turned to Ferguson. “Can I come with you, Brigadier? You could have that wonderful Ghurka of yours bring me back.”

“Of course, my dear, if you’d like that.”

“It’s settled then.” She ran indoors.